By a Charm and a Curse(16)

Duncan riffles through the rack of costumes closest to him. Every time a hanger swishes along the rack, little plumes of dust and fiber flutter into the air. “Lars took your phone and ditched it in the parking lot of a Walmart in town.”

Lars took my phone? And ditched it at a Walmart of all places? Oh God. My parents really will think I’ve run away. Or got kidnapped. Either option is viable, since I made it abundantly clear I hate Claremore. Will Juliet and her dad get in trouble? Will my parents be upset? Will my mom fly back from Guatemala or just bury herself in her research, too busy to be bothered with a missing daughter?

Duncan holds a lemony-yellow dress to my cheek. “God, the curse just makes them so pale, you know what I mean, Gin?”

Gin snorts. “You know you’re talking to someone who keeps an industrial-size bucket of sunblock in her trailer, right?”

“Yeah, but you’re Irish or something. I’ve seen copy paper darker than you.”

Gin extends her middle finger, long and elegant.

“So rude,” Duncan says.

“Hey, how do you know all that? About the phone and the kiss and everything?” I ask.

Duncan taps a hanger to his temple. “Psychic, like, for realsies. And I’m nosy as shit.” He heaps a red-colored velvet jacket, a silky blue dress, and a pastel pink-and-gold marching band coat into my arms, then corrals me to the back of the trailer where a full-length mirror stands next to a vanity, the kind with big golden lightbulbs framing the edges. Gin gently pushes me down onto the worn velvet bench in front of the mirror while Duncan starts to rummage through the drawers.

“Did you hear about Fabrizio Moretti and the bullshit he pulled last night?” Duncan asks as he begins to line up trays of blush and eye shadow.

Gin huffs as she picks up a hairbrush and sets to work on my tangles. “No. What now?”

“He and his brothers were showing off, right—basically, they were breaking about five laws of physics.” Duncan leans in close, like he and I are going to share in a great big secret. “Well, not really, but they were doing that thing where Lorenzo balances on Antonio’s palm while Fabrizio climbs over the both of them like a deranged spider monkey. Anyhoo. Some local decided they must use wires or mirrors or something, and he stayed after the performance to tell the Brothers Numbskull that they’re full of it. Fabrizio, the cocky little shit, maintains the only thing the rube is full of is hot air. You can see where this is going. In the end, it took four of the roustabouts to separate them, and Leslie had to offer the townies free tickets for tonight so they wouldn’t press charges.”

Duncan says all of this in a voice so sour it could have turned milk.

“Every morning I wake up and hope this will be the day Leslie will leave the Morettis by the side of the road, but every night, they’re still here.” Gin grimaces at my scalp, though I’m fairly certain it’s not my hairstyle offending her.

“They bring in a shit-ton of money,” Duncan says. “Besides. The charm makes them lucky, the luck makes them ballsy, and being ballsy makes them better performers.”

Now it’s Gin’s turn to sound pissy. “Don’t remind me.”

A bang rattles the flimsy trailer door. “Police. Open up.”

I freeze. Oh shit. Oh shit. This is it. They’re going to drag me away and then—

“Don’t move,” Duncan says as he pushes me into a chair in the corner and piles a heap of costumes over me.

The door creaks open, and Gin says, “Can I help you?”

“Officer Sharpe, Claremore PD,” a man says. “We’re looking for this girl. Have you seen her?”

The clothes weigh down on my chest like sandbags dragging me to the ocean floor. I tug a tutu down a fraction, just enough to catch a glimpse of Gin.

“Never seen her,” Gin says. She lifts one shoulder lazily to match her bored tone of voice.

“Anyone else in there?” the officer asks.

Gin turns, gesturing toward the rows of costumes. “Just me and Duncan,” she says.

“Hello, officer,” Duncan says. The officer’s eyes go wide with shock, and though I can’t see him, I have a feeling Duncan is giving the officer the flirtiest look he can manage.

“Well,” Sharpe says. The trailer dips under his weight. “Still need to take a look.” Heavy footsteps accompany the officer’s slow perusal of the trailer. I go as still as possible, hoping the pile of clothes will keep me hidden. And then the officer’s toe nudges mine.

The shirt covering my face whips away, and I get a good look at Officer Sharpe. He’s dark-skinned and handsome, uniform crisp, badge gleaming, and eyes growing wider by the second. Behind him, Duncan’s mouth flaps open and closed, as though he’s flailing for words. Oh God. He’s going to take me away.

He whips a paper out of his back pocket, and I catch the quickest glimpse of my face before he’s holding the flyer next to me. “Holy hell,” Sharpe says, eyes never leaving mine. “This mannequin looks just like the girl.”

Duncan jumps up. “Are you sure?” He taps my forehead with his fingernail, hard enough that we all hear the faint click, click, click. “We’ve had this old thing as long as I can remember.”

I grind my teeth, but no one seems to notice.

“Really.” Suddenly Sharpe, though he doesn’t seem old, is the jaded cop from every TV show. “Exactly what use does a carnival have for a mannequin?”